


Complicated

by the_authors_exploits



Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Beware, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Slow Building Story, also shitty writing because i didnt really try very hard, at certain parts but mostly hurt/comfort/angst, check the word count
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:21:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2206881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_authors_exploits/pseuds/the_authors_exploits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wanted Peter, because Peter made everything alright. Peter gave him hot chocolate during rainy days; Peter kissed him when he cried; Peter told him he was perfect after his father had called him useless. Harry just wanted Peter.</p><p>But having Peter near would mean having to tell him that Harry was dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complicated

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno shit about retroviral hyperplasia, what is canon and shit; I TOOK CREATIVE LIBERTY, OK? sue me. (please dont, Im a poor college girl with only a blog and fanfiction to her name)
> 
> All was inspired by three songs, in order of most inspiration: I'm not the One-3OH!3, Swimming in the Flood-CryWolf, Hell Above-Pierce the Veil  
> I have specific lines from these songs that really, really inspired me the most so see end for those.
> 
> Also, this is a long, angst filled, craptasticly written/executed fanfiction. Enjoy at your own risk~~

The call came around 3:15 PM on a Thursday afternoon. Bugle photographer Peter Parker was walking home to Aunt May’s, backpack slung on his back and his camera tucked away at his side, when his phone chirped out that catchy tune that seemed to follow Spiderman everywhere. He’d dug his phone out of his pants pocket and, not recognizing the phone number, let it ring twice more before answering.

“Hello?”

“Is this Peter Parker?” It was a woman, probably a bit old and maybe even foreign if her accent was anything to go by; pinpointing the accent was hard, it was subtle, so much so that Peter questioned if it was really there or not. There was the clack of nails on a keyboard in the background and voices over speakers and crying.

“Umm, yes?”

“Hello, Mister Parker, I’m Mary-Ann Tsuny. I work at Elmhurst Hospital Center.”

He froze, first thought going to _something had happened to Aunt May_ ; he said as much. “Ohmygod, Aunt May!”

“Oh, no, sir, no. It’s actually Harold Osborn. You were under his contacts as next of kin…?” She sounded unsure, but Peter didn’t care if she’d made some error.

He did a 180 on the heel of his foot and hurried past everyone on the sidewalk. “Is he okay? What happened? Car accident? Did he OD? Shit, probably, shit… Is he okay?”

The woman, Mary-Ann, felt sympathetic for the man over the phone. He sounded worried, more than worried, rambling and spitting out questions and a jumble of nerves. “He’s doing well now, he’s resting comfortably. His assistant found him seizing on the floor of his office. We’re running tests now and thought we should let you know.”

“You’re keeping him? For observation, right? He’s okay, right?” Seizing? That was a neurological problem, right? Why would Harry be seizing? He didn’t have a history of seizures, why now? What had happened? Would he be okay?

“Yes, among other things. I think you should speak to his doctor about the details. I’m not qualified to do so.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Peter hung up without even a goodbye or a thank you. He momentarily felt some guilt for his lack of manners, but worry over Harry soon took precedence, and he broke out into a run. He shoved people aside and ran and ran and ran. Sneakered feet slapped against the pavement and he veered around corners, not even waiting for the walk sign at crosswalks and taking alleyways when available.

He made it to the hospital in fifteen.

Bursting through the glass doors he screeched to a halt, scanning the sea-foam green waiting room for anyone he recognized, anyone at all, maybe a worker from Oscorp or—hopefully—Harry himself. Maybe complaining about all the drama, though secretly enjoying the spotlight’s warmth, and Peter would crush him in a hug and order for him to never scare him like that again e _ver_.

But there was, of course, no Harry and Peter stumbled to the front desk panting from his run.

“Harry,” he took a gulp of air. “Osborn, Har-Harold Osborn. O-S-B-O-R-N.” There was a stitch in his side from running that was knotting further and further; he placed a hand over it in hopes of willing it away and grimaced when it tightened further. He took a couple deep breaths.

“Oh, Peter Parker?”

The accent. Mary-Ann.

“Yes, yes, god, is he okay?”

The receptionist took in the boy before her. He was wiry, long limbed, with a mess of hair and wide terrified eyes. He looked disheveled all over, his backpack was falling down one shoulder and his shirt was wrinkled and the wide-eyed, deer-caught-in-the-headlights look didn’t help his overall appearance. Poor boy. “Why don’t I call his doctor for you? You’ll get more answers that way; just take a seat over there please, dear.” Mary-Ann picked up the receiver and dialed the needed number.

While she did that, Peter limped away from the desk. Instead of taking a seat, though, he paced in front of the double doors leading further into the hospital. He clicked and clapped his hands together nervously, staring at his sneakers. One was untied and it was a miracle he’d made it here without tripping; he didn’t stop to tie it. He just continued to scuff along the marked white tiled flooring.

A squat, mildly overweight man came through the double doors, doctor’s coat billowing behind him, and approached Peter slowly. “Mister Parker?” At Peter’s nod, he continued; offering his somewhat chubby hand, he said “Doctor Barrymore, I’m Mister Osborn’s personal physician. Please, follow me.”

Peter did, eagerly so. “Is he alright?”

“Yes, he’s resting right now. He hasn’t woken yet so we’re keeping him until he does and we can guarantee he won’t be seizing again. We’re running some bloodwork at the moment, but the underlying cause seems to be incredibly low blood sugar. Most likely due to not eating or drinking enough.”

Dammit, Peter would move back in with Harry and hover over every move he made if he wasn’t eating again. That was an old habit of his, forgetting to eat. Dammit.

Doctor Barrymore carried on as if he didn’t know Parker was a wizard at Osborn knowledge. “Mister Osborn is known to forget to care for himself. Though, I must say, this is an extreme case even for him.”

“Yeah, it is…”

“Here we are.”

They’d been walking through some corridors, passing by some orderlies or patients or visitors, and had turned the corner to come upon a door flanked by two large men in nicely tailored suits; down the hall a ways was Felicia, whispering quickly on the phone to lord knows who. Peter recognized one of the men as Harry’s most trusted (and liked) bodyguard, Luis.

Luis nodded subtly to Peter. “Mister Parker.”

“Ahh, you are acquainted with Luis!” The doctor invaded Peter’s personal space; he smelled of tictacs. “Good, neither of them have said anything whenever Mister Osborn has been in the hospital and it’s rather scary. Nice to have a reaction from at least one of them. Now, I assume you’d like to see Mister Osborn? Please try not to disrupt him too much.”

Barrymore opened the door and Peter slipped inside quickly, assessing his friend as he hurried to his side. Harry was lying still beneath the sterile hospital sheets, the head of his bed slightly raised, and an oxygen mask fitted over his face. The mask fogged with every breath he took. There were IVs and a heart monitor and the bleeping of machinery. He looked pale with dark circles under his eyes and Peter let his backpack fall to the ground quietly, gingerly took a seat on the edge of the bed. Peter reached out to frame the young CEO’s face, to solidify that he was breathing and alright. He felt cold to the touch and Peter tugged the scratchy sheets up further.

“God, Harry… What did you do?”

\------------------------------

He’d called Aunt May at one point, slipping out of the room and dialing her number, explaining everything quickly and that he wouldn’t be home tonight. He’d slipped back inside the room and resumed his place besides his friend. Peter had held Harry’s hand securely in his own, cradled against his lap, running the back of his knuckles against the exposed skin of the other’s arm.

“Wake up, Har,” he’d whispered. “Wake up, come on.”

The doctor had come back a nervous ball of energy, fidgeting, and that made Peter worry; what he had said was worrisome too. “It’s not good he hasn’t awoken yet, Mister Parker.”

“Wake up, Harry.”

\------------------------------

He had fallen asleep at one point, sometime before Felicia had left for Oscorp and after he’d traded sitting on the bed for slumping in a chair. He woke up to his head pillowed on his arms that rested against the bed. He straightened, worked out a crick in his neck, and observed his friend. There didn’t appear to be any change; Harry still breathed evenly, his eyes still flickered slowly beneath pale eyelids, he still lay so very still.

Peter ran a hand through his hair and stood to stretch more and to use the bathroom. Before turning away, he smoothed a hand over Harry’s forehead.

And Harry opened his eyes. Slowly, at first, just a quick flutter. Then a quiet groan and his eyes opened, beautiful clear blue orbs.

“Harry!” Peter’s face broke into a grin and he wanted to just crush Harry close to solidify that he was going to be okay; he settled for crashing his lips to Harry’s. He pulled away quickly. “Oh, god, Harry! Let me get the doctor, hang on; do you know where you are?” Peter pushed the call button by Harry’s head.

Harry merrily blinked and shifted under the blankets. He slowly shook his head no. “N-no.” His voice cracked and Peter reached onto the side table for the pitcher of water a nurse had brought in sometime last night. He poured a cup and helped Harry drink, removing the face mask.

The door opened and in came Doctor Barrymore. “Mister Osborn, good to see you awake! Ah, Mister Parker, if you’d please…” He motioned for the door but Peter didn’t budge from his spot besides Harry.

Harry reached out a shaking hand and gripped at the brunette’s wrist. “Pe’er, I’m okay. We’re at…’ospital?”

Peter nodded; he ran a hand softly through the other’s hair. “Yeah, Felicia found you seizing…” Harry’s nose scrunched in that confused way it always did when he couldn’t quite put the pieces together; Peter smirked. “It’s okay, you’re doing good now, okay? Just…don’t scare me like that again.”

Harry nodded tiredly. “Sorry; promise not to.”

“Mister Parker, I must speak to Mister Osborn now. Alone, if you please.”

Peter nodded and acquiesced. Doctor Barrymore stood by Harry’s bed and gave the man—no, the boy—a pitying glance.

“Mister Osborn…Harry, we did some tests. To determine why you may have seized; obviously your blood sugar was dangerously low. When was the last time you ate, hmm?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, okay, I’ve had a lot of paperwork. Sometime last week, maybe I had a muffin on Monday.”

It was now Friday. Barrymore felt his patience slipping with his patient; Harry had always been like this. “Harry…”

“I’ll do better, I promise, I’ve just been drowning in paperwork. It’s the end of the month. Stuff piles on. You know I’m forgetful.”

“Maybe you should have someone monitor you during these stressful times then.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Barrymore glanced down at the chart in his hands; this is what he was dreading. These test results, they would destroy the young CEO before him. “Harry, there’s something else.” He didn’t want to say it. “Mister Osborn…”

“Well? Spit it out, I have things to get back to…” Harry removed the oxygen mask from his face and sat up straighter; he was still rather tired, had been tired for a while now. It wasn’t that he’d necessarily forgotten to eat, it was more that food made him ill. Sick to his stomach and a headache and sleep was all he wanted. But he had a company to run and he had to run that company, had to research medical and military and scientific discovers, had to pay his workers, board meetings and fund raisers and charity events.

“Harry, I’m sorry, but… Tests show you have retroviral hyperplasia.”

\------------------------------

Peter paced worriedly outside Harry’s room. It had been three and a half hours since he’d been kicked out of the room and so far three different Oscorp employees (board members, he thought) had been going in and out periodically and two doctors had joined Doctor Barrymore. Felicia wouldn’t give him any answers whenever he asked, caught her on her way in or out of the room, and the bodyguards wouldn’t let him close enough to gain a glance through the latticed window. There were barely any noises from inside, except the occasional shout from Harry that had Peter marching towards the door; of course, Luis would meet him about four feet from his destination and turn him away after a heated argument.

Peter didn’t know what was going on and that was bothering him. It was annoying and frustrating and he just wanted to know that everything was okay. Was it really bad? Was Harry okay? It had just been low blood sugar, right? But it could’ve been worse. Brain injury? Poison?

Peter bit his nail and bounced on his toes. Felicia came out of the room once more, looking frazzled and tired, and Peter thought he might’ve heard someone crying before the door shut behind her. But it could’ve been anyone in the hospital, could have been a baby or another patient or a family member. He accosted the assistant immediately for answers.

“Look, what’s going on? No one’s telling me anything! Is Harry okay?”

“Peter, please, I have to make a call. If you’ll excuse me.” Her arm was snatched quick and it brought her to a halt.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

His brown eyes were hardened like diamonds, his brows dipped down into the deepest valley she’d ever seen. Worry lines littered his forehead and his lips were set in a thin determined line. She felt herself crumble, let out a sigh. “It was just low blood sugar, Peter.” She hated lying to him; but it was Harry’s orders: _No one tell Peter_. “We’re just…settling some things before he is released.”

Peter nodded, couldn’t help thinking _you haven’t done your job well, Felicia, if he had a seizure_ , and released her to resume his pacing, still gnawing on his nail. He wasn’t as worried as before, but still. Harry would’ve let him in, Harry would’ve talked to him, Harry would’ve reassured him. Maybe he was embarrassed, but still…

\------------------------------

Harry was released from the hospital the next day and Peter accepted his offer for a ride home. They piled into the back of the limousine and Harry told his driver to go to the Parker Residence. Harry’s booted feet found their way into Peter’s lap as they conversed.

“So what are you going to do when you get home, hmm?”

Harry good naturedly rolled his eyes. “Eat, drink, sleep,” he recited.

“Yup, and the next time you get bogged down what are you going to do?”

“Call my nanny.” Harry held up a small finger to punctuate his words. “One Peter Parker.”

Peter laughed, running a hand over the laces on the other’s boots. “That’s right, you are!”

They laughed some more, Peter enjoying the sound of Harry’s lilting voice, loving the way his eyes crinkled in joy. Even if he still looked tired and worn, he was beautiful. Peter swallowed quickly and patted the slim legs thrown over his own.

“Pete?”

“Yeah?”

Harry rested his head against the seat, arms tightening around his midsection. “Do you think… Well, Spiderman, he… He has super healing or whatever, right, like a spider?”

Peter nodded.

“Well, do you think…maybe, ya know, if my dad had thought of it…do you think his blood would’ve helped at all? Think it would’ve helped with the Osborn curse…?”

It had only been two months since Norman Osborn’s death. Harry hadn’t seemed at all bothered by the loss; in fact he had confessed to Peter late one night, when they were both snug under the covers lying side by side for a sleep over, that he was the happiest he’d ever been. Peter could understand, though he missed his parents greatly. Norman was never very kind to his heir and often times Harry had called crying or showed up at Aunt May’s with bruises. So to see Harry’s eyes swimming and so dejected threw Peter off; that, and the question.

Really, Spiderman’s ~~(his)~~ blood? Would it have helped? No, it wouldn’t have. Just look at Doctor Connors. He had been turned into a monster, sadly, and Peter had had to fight him.

“No, Har, I…I don’t think it would’ve…”

There was a pause where they seemed to size each other up before Harry scoffed, sinking further against the back of the seat. He dismissed the topic quickly. “Yeah… Stupid to think so. I’m gonna nap, let me know when we arrive.”

“’kay…” Peter brushed a thumb against the exposed skin at Harry’s ankle and watched him drop off to sleep. Blinking quickly, he turned to Smithson, the driver. “Hey, Smithson; do you know why he was in the hospital? I feel like I’m missing something here…”

Smithson barely gave him a glance. “I thought Miss Hardy told you, sir. Low blood sugar caused a--”

“Yeah, okay, but I’m calling bull.” Peter lowered his voice when Harry shifted beneath his hand. “Look, something more is going on. You know, don’t you?”

When Smithson said nothing, Peter slumped against his seat. That was a yes.

“Is it bad?”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

The brunette watched his friend breathe, in and out, watched him loll with each bump in the road. Peter reached out to stroke the golden hair softly.

“Keep an eye on him, Mister Parker, sir.” Smithson truly looked older than his sixty-seven years; he looked tired and worn and…scared. “He’s—delicate. He needs special care.”

Peter could only nod. “But I can’t be with him all the time, Smithson. I have college and a job.”

“Then you do what you can and that’s all that matters.”

When they finally arrived at his house, Peter didn’t wake Harry. He extricated himself from beneath his friend’s feet, a press of lips to his temple, and Peter bumbled from the car and up his front steps.

“Aunt May, I’m home!”

\------------------------------

Harry was tired and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking and it seemed as though he would never be done with paperwork. Ever. Each day there was a new stack, and he had board meetings and press conferences and phone calls from various overseas investors. He had to micromanage some of the Secret Projects and shut down others and start up new ones.

If only he could get his hands to stay steady. Barrymore had given him a plethora of drugs to take as symptoms progressed; to aid in the pain and keep them at bay for a while. But if Harry barely remembered to eat regularly then Barrymore should’ve known better than to have dumped pills after pills on him. They were strict pills, the ones to handle the shaking. Certain times were needed to take them with certain meals, all of which Harry didn’t have time to orchestrate.

And of course he was angry. So, like the child inside him, he refused to take the drugs. (That, and the fact he was rather scared of adding another addiction to his alcoholic and cocaine habits.) He was angry at his father, for beating him, for discouraging him daily, for the harsh words and the even harsher hand. He was mad at his father for lying to him.

 _It skips a generation_ , he had said. _You’ll watch your children suffer, but never know how it feels. To be in the pain they’ll be in. They’ll probably die young, too._

Harry had stopped sleeping around after that. He would not carry the Osborn curse on to another generation. He would not let his children—children that yes he wanted—turn out like his father. But Norman had lied. It never skipped a generation. He had lied to give him hope, to take away any hope when the diagnosis came.

Harry was dying. Just like his father, just like the would-be-tiny-Harrys he had tried to protect, to not bring into this hurtful world. His father had ruined a chance he could’ve had at a fun life while he was healthy by stopping any partying and romantic relationships with a crippling fear. And now he was ruining Harry’s life once more, from beyond the grave.

And wasn’t that just so unfair?

“Mister Osborn, Peter Parker is here.”

Harry smiled; ohh happy distraction! He pushed the intercom button. “Send him up, Miriam.”

The receptionist did just that and in six minutes a grinning, bouncing Peter Parker was standing in the young CEO’s office.

“Hey, Har.”

Harry smiled, relaxing back against his chair. He felt his shaking subsiding, felt himself relaxing, tense muscles evening out to melt against the plush cushioning at his back. He gave a wide smile. “Hi; what are you up to?”

“Just in the neighborhood, thought I’d stop by and see how you were doing. Have you ate today?”

He had not. “Yeah, uh, totally ate, yup.” Peter frowned and his wide doe eyes reminded Harry of a kicked puppy; Harry caved. “No, I haven’t, but--”

“Great, come on, I’m taking you to lunch. Come on, get your jacket!” Peter came jogging around the desk to grab at the coat slung over the back of the computer chair. “Come on, come on, come on, up!”

With a tap to his arm and a short laugh, Harry stood and allowed Peter to hold his coat for him. He slipped in it quickly, saving and locking his desk computer files, before following Peter’s pull on his arm. “Where are we going?”

“Dunno; Chinese?”

Harry remembered getting sick on Chinese three days before. Not Chinese. “Nope; what about—Miss Hardy, hold my calls—what about Adour?”

Peter laughed mid-wave at Felicia, a full-body-folding laugh. “I think you may have forgotten, Mister Rich-Pants, that I’m on a waiter and photographer paycheck! I can’t afford Ad-war!”

“Adour, Pete; come on, I’ll pay!”

Peter slung an arm around his shorter friend. “Nope; what about Applebees?”

“Fine, we can eat your peasant food.”

“It’s not peasant food, it’s good!”

Harry thought for a moment; he sunk against his friend’s side. “Nope, peasant food. Nothing like French cuisine.”

They bickered their whole way there, not even stopping when they entered a taxi. (They would chat more friendly over their burgers in their booth, wrestling under the table with their feet occasionally, grinning and laughing.) Harry really didn’t mind Applebees. It was good, nice, to not act rich. Same with taking a taxi instead of his personal driver. It was nice to just act normal, laugh with Peter.

Laugh like he wasn’t dying by the minute.

As selfish as it was, Harry was going to miss Peter.

\------------------------------

The rash started two weeks after his diagnosis. It started on his upper arm, on the right side of his body. It popped up on his left ankle a few days later. It itched and burned and was a nasty yellow-green color, blemishing Harry’s once smooth skin; sometimes the skin broke and he bled. He started taking the pills then.

He also started a Secret Project on finding a cure; yes, he was hoping he could get it for himself, hoping he could save himself somehow, but that was incredibly unlikely. At least anyone else who may end up having this incredibly rare disease would have better hope than he did. He tried to hold on to that piece of happiness, but it only made him bitter.

The shaking subsided some with the pills, and his rashes stopped hurting as much as before. He slept past his alarm now, practicing for when he was dead he supposed, and he was missing important meetings and appointments. The media was going wild.

And of course his company was abuzz. With quiet, hushed, hidden conversations that shut off at the mere sight of him. Whispered conversations changed course the minute he showed up. Harry was fearing mutiny.

He ignored his buzzing phone once more, opting to stare at the wall in front of him. He was curled on a plush, white L-sofa, a light blanket thrown over his legs and his eyes lazily blinking, blurring the wall of his living room.

The buzzing kept up, and he kept ignoring it. Whoever it was should leave him be to wallow in his misery. He slowly shut his eyes and fell asleep.

Across town, Peter dialed his friend again. No answer, again. He slipped his phone into his pocket and hurried down an alley. Checking to make sure no one was around, Peter slipped his Spidey-Suit on quickly.

He was worried about Harry; the CEO hadn’t been himself as of late and the media had been portraying very disturbing information. _Shirking duties and arriving to Oscorp looking rumpled; late night excursions with exotic women perhaps?_ Peter didn’t quite buy it; sure, Harry had always been a bit of a ladies-man, but not as much anymore…

So he swung quickly through the city, dispatching a robber and righting a young girl when she tripped on his way. He made it to Harry’s flat rather quickly. (Harry had moved out of the Osborn Mansion when he had returned from boarding school a year ago, before his father passed.) Peter liked it; it was large but not empty, with a couple nice sized bedrooms and a kitchen and a living room, bathroom. It was even nicely decorated, though Peter would never feed Harry’s ego.

Landing on the wall by the large, living room windows, Peter crawled closer to the edge of the glass. Peeking in, he caught sight of Harry lying on his couch, looking as if he was sleeping. He looked terrible, sallow and his eyes sunken with red circles swallowing them whole. On the coffee table before him lay dozens of pill bottles.

Peter’s first thought was that he had ODed…again. (The memory of reading on the internet that _Harry Osborn, aspiring Oscorp heir and currently residing in England, has overdosed and was rushed to the hospital late last night_ three years ago still terrified Peter to the core.)

He forced the window open (it was unlocked, Harry should be more worried about his safety) and ducked inside quickly, grabbing the first bottles within reach and hurrying around the coffee table to Harry’s side.

Pain killers, a tube of ointment, names he didn’t recognize, sleeping pills, migraine pills, Advil… So many many more and Peter knelt quickly by the couch, going straight for Harry’s pulse point against his throat.

It was steady, like a normal person who was resting. His breathing was even and his eyes moved lazily beneath pale eyelids. He didn’t have any symptoms of overdosing, but Peter still worried. The sheer amount of pills was troublesome, and there were many factors to consider. Did any of these have adverse side effects when taken together? And Harry had a drinking problem, had he taken any alcohol too close to when he’d ingested the pills?

Peter smoothed back his friend’s bangs. “Harry, what’s going on with you?”

He took an inventory of the room and thankfully none of the alcohol seemed to have been touched for a while now; and Harry didn’t smell of alcohol. Peter decided to be safe and inspect the other rooms too. First was Harry’s bedroom, which also housed numerous pill bottles all very similar in use to those in the living room; though upon further investigation these seemed to be stronger than the others. There was a glass of stale water besides the bottles and Peter quickly refilled it with cool tap water from the adjourning bathroom sink.

The bathroom was littered as well. Peter couldn’t ever remember Harry being so disorganized. There were hair care products and two toothbrushes by the sink, a blow dryer that was not plugged in, dirty towels on the floor mixed with some laundry. A fancy shirt that was stained with what looked like vomit, a pair of pants that had a blood stain at the ankle… Peter was increasingly becoming distressed by the state of it all.

Harry was borderline OCD, and everything always had its place. Everything was organized, categorized, and clean.

The kitchen only made him more worried. There was barely any food in the fridge, and it was obvious Harry wasn’t eating much. Though the amount of glasses in the sink assured Peter that he was staying hydrated—and only one smelled of Scotch! It was a miracle.

A worrying one.

Peter returned to the living room, checked over Harry once more, and detangled the blanket from around his legs. The webslinger tucked the blanket around his friend and pressed a kiss to his cheek, going so far as to lift the mask to actually feel the other’s cool skin.

“Hmm, Pe’er…” Harry roused some at the action. Of course he would think it was Peter; who else woke him with kisses?

Peter scratched against the other’s scalp; his mask was replaced quickly. “Mister Osborn, how many pills did you take?”

Harry’s eyes slitted open and gave Spiderman a gentle glare. “How’d you get in here?” There was no question as to how Spiderman knew him: one, Harry Osborn was famous, duhh; two, Spiderman probably knew a lot of people in the city.

“Window; the pills, Mister Osborn.”

Harry turned to lie on his stomach and pressed his face against the couch cushion. So Spiderman was in his house, wasn’t like he could—or should—kick him out; it was Spiderman, hero and vigilante, and Harry wouldn’t mind his presence. After all, he was too proud to ask for company but if Spiderman was offering then... “The right amount; no, no alcohol was ingested beforehand…” Spiderman kept scratching through his hair. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

Peter couldn’t say no; as long as Harry was okay, than he had no reason as Spiderman to keep him up and bombard him with questions. “Okay; but call Peter sometime. He’s worried about you.”

Harry turned his face towards the red and blue clad vigilante; only one eye was visible through the hair that had fallen into his face. “He talks about me?”

Peter brushed the hair from his face, nodding slowly. “Yeah; a lot. So…talk to him.”

And with that, Spiderman vanished out through the window.

\------------------------------

Harry called Peter two days later and they hung out for the day. Harry wore a rather superfluous scarf around his neck the whole time, not even taking it off when they entered Starbucks. It was a gray color made of light material, probably a brand name too, but really, Osborn, a scarf?

“Come on, take it off.”

“No!” Harry clutched at it protectively. “I shan’t, it’s much too pretty and goes rather well with my outfit, don’t you think?”

Peter thought it made Harry look sickly, offering a dark contrast to his pale skin and red rimmed eyes. “I think you could’ve picked a better color; really, Har, gray is not your color.”

“It’s perfect, and a good color for the weather we’ve been having.”

Peter reached across the table, fingers just grazing the edge of it, before Harry let out an undignified yelp. He slapped at Peter’s hand and jumped away quickly.

“Peter, _no_!”

The panic in his eyes made Peter’s stomach drop, twist. He hadn’t seen that look on the boy’s face in a while. He swallowed. “Okay, alright, I won’t. ‘M sorry, I won’t touch it.”

Harry made no move to sit back down and some people were openly staring at the pair.

“Come on, Har, sit down. Come on…”

With some coaxing, Harry took his seat again. He adjusted the scarf and clutched at his coffee cup—Chai Tea Latte, grande. He didn’t make eye contact, just fingered the scarf and clasped the cup. “Don’t. Don’t touch it, please.”

“Okay, yeah, sure. Scarf’s off limits.”

He was muttering now, as if to just talk, as if he had to explain himself. Which Peter felt he kinda should. “It’s Prada.”

Peter just nodded when Harry didn’t continue; pretty lame excuse... “Yeah, cool.” He didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t reach out for him. He stayed still, allowing Harry to calm down quietly. The brunette took note of how the other’s hands shook. Eventually, Harry looked up again.

“Sorry.”

Peter gave a forced smile and hoped it would be enough to fool his friend. “Yeah, no worries, buddy. Should’ve known not to mess with your wardrobe, you probably got it perfectly pressed and just perfectly askew. All about the fashion, huh?”

Harry relaxed at his words and the rest of the day carried on as normal. And if Harry refused physical contact for the day and fell asleep on the subway on the way to his home, Peter made no mention of it. But he made himself a promise.

He was going to find out what was going on with his friend.

\------------------------------

Harry shouldn’t have been out so late; he should’ve been at home, sleeping off his drug induced state of fuzzy, as he had dubbed it. He was disorientated; the sleeping pills always did that, always made him confused and made it hard to think. He didn’t even know how he got here or where here even was. Just that he was walking down a dark, nearly deserted street at god-knew-what-hour-in-the-morning and he was tripping over his feet every other step.

He had a hood pulled up over his head and his hands thrust into the deep pockets of the jacket. One knee of his designer jeans was ripped and the skin was bleeding some from a scrape he didn’t remember getting. Who knew how long he had been out wandering around, who knew where he was…

He wanted Peter. Peter would make things better, Peter would know what to do. Peter would take him home and wash him up and tuck him into bed, give him a kiss or two goodnight, maybe even lie with him for a while.

But at the same time, he didn’t want Peter. Having Peter meant he might discover the rash that had spread from his arm to his neck. Might discover things he didn’t need to worry about. Peter didn’t need that. So no Peter.

Footsteps behind him made Harry stumble faster. He didn’t particularly feel like getting mugged tonight; he wanted to sleep. He wanted to be home but to not be home but to be home. He didn’t know what he wanted. He knew that he always wanted to sleep now, was always tired, and he knew that he was slipping further down this slope.

Hands on his arm had him snarling—slurred as it was, it was still threatening. “Lemme go!”

“Harry!”

He looked up into wide, silver, reflective masked eyes. Spiderman. “Oh, s’you.” He gave a halfhearted glare. “Mister Osborn t’you. We aren’t f’iends.”

“Harry, what are you doing out here so late? God, you’re freezing!”

He gave a dismissive wave with his hand; yeah, he was shaking because of the chill, but not all because of it. “’M fine!” Squinting around at his surroundings, Harry corrected “Well, maybe you could escor’ me home since I don’t seem to exactly know w’ere I am…or goin’. I dunno, man….” He slumped forward against the webslinger’s chest.

Peter felt himself freeze; what was wrong with Harry? “Hey, hey, come on! Talk to me, what do you remember?” He wrapped his arms securely around the slighter boy when Harry leaned into him more.

“Took mah pills, laid down and there was this…dude o’er me, on a…wicked cool hoverboard, but real’y? Green is so a nas’y color…” Harry brought a hand up to rub at his eyes.

“What? Someone broke into your house?” When a gaggle of girls came around the corner, Spiderman led Harry and himself away from the street and into a back alley.

Harry’s face screwed up in thought. “Dunno, don’t think so. Probs a hallucinimanation.”

“You mean hallucination?”

The slighter boy nodded, pawing at the other’s chest. “Yeah. S’what I said. Some’the pills do that, ‘specially the sleep ones. Baaaddddd dreams too…”

Peter frowned at that, tightening his hold some more. Harry suddenly looked up, nearly bonking Peter on the chin in the process. He gave Spiderman a suspicious look then.

“You stalkin’ me?”

A flash of yellow on the smaller boy’s neck beneath the hood caught Spiderman’s attention briefly, before his eyes flickered back onto Harry’s face; probably just the low-light playing tricks. “N-no…” Yeah, maybe Peter had decided to swing by Harry’s place to check up on him. And maybe he had decided to find him when he wasn’t home, stopping at Oscorp and scouring the streets for a good forty minutes.

“Mmm, you’re a terrible liar…”

Peter said nothing.

Harry yawned and slumped further against Spiderman’s chest; he was warm, and Harry found that somewhat surprising. After all, one would think spandex wouldn’t hold any warmth. “I think you’re stalkin’ me.”

“Come on, I’m taking you home.” Peter tightened his grip on the other and flung his wrist out to shoot a web. “We’re going to fly, just… Ya know, fyi…”

For some reason Harry found that funny and began to giggle. He laughed for the better part of the journey, whooping and hollering at the adrenaline rush. When Peter set him down on the roof of his apartment building, he sank to the ground, wiping wet eyes.

“Are you in love, Spidey-guy?”

Spiderman didn’t reply, thinking. Was Peter in love? Yes. He loved Gwen, and he loved Harry. And of course he loved Aunt May. But in love, in love? Well…he supposed so. “Yes.”

Harry’s eyes reflected the street lights below. They were bright and intrusive and cars rumbled back and forth on the streets thirteen floors down. “I am too.”

The spandex-wearer merrily nodded. “Oh.” What was he to say to that?

“I love him and I can’t… I can’t talk to him, and he’s so wonderful, Spidey, god… This’d kill him.”

Knowing Harry loved him? That would probably not kill anyone; probably make them really really happy, life fulfilled happy! “Come on, you should go to bed.”

Harry rubbed at his neck, nodded, and pulled his hood back on. It had fallen on their way over. “Mk, yeah, uhh… Thanks, you know: for the lift.”

Spiderman eyed the bleeding knee. “You aren’t getting rid of me that quickly, bud. Come on, let me help you clean that. What do you say?”

Harry regarded the injury for a minute, shrugged. “I got it…” He’d much rather Peter clean him up than a faceless superhero wannabe. He opened the door to the stairwell, gave a half salute. “Thanks ‘gain.”

Spiderman gave a wave goodbye, now in deep thought. Something was wrong, something was terribly wrong.

 

\------------------------------

Peter couldn’t just sit and wait for something to happen, so he had snuck into the hospital that Harry had been in after his seizure. He crept to Barrymore’s office and picked the lock, entered. He needed answers and if Harry wouldn’t talk to him and there was no other way, then breaking in it was! It was easier than Peter thought it would’ve been and he was soon standing before three filing cabinets. He had to pick the lock on those too and soon he was rifling through the patient charts. The filing cabinets were in alphabetical order and he was soon found in the O-section. Osborn, Harry.

Pulling the file out, Peter sat crosslegged on the ground and began to go through it. Doctor visits when he was young, a broken arm, allergic reaction to cinnamon, appendicitis when he was thirteen… Most of the paperwork had been sent over from a doctor at the boarding school. Overdose, a prescription for a therapy visit, prescription for depression meds, a car accident, a doctor check due to being held hostage at a bank. Maybe Harry should hire more bodyguards…

Eventually, Peter hit more recent doctor visits. Pain medication, strong migraine meds, stuff for insomnia. Low blood sugar, seizure. Peter hunkered down more, paying careful attention to the words on the page before him.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

He whirled around to see Doctor Barrymore standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a clipboard in hand. The nasally voice sounded mildly annoyed.

“Uhh…I’m the cleaning lady…?” It came out in a high-pitched, squeaky voice, Peter’s signature _I’m lying_ voice.

Barrymore rolled his eyes, walked further into the room, and snatched the file from Peter’s hands.

“Hey!”

“I could have you arrested for breaking and entering—” Barrymore raised a brow at the name on the file. “But, I won’t press charges. Now get out.”

“Wait, wait!” Peter hopped to his feet quickly. “Wait, something’s wrong with Harry! I—I need to know, I need to help him.”

Barrymore tucked the paperwork and chart beneath his arm and regarded the boy before him. “Mister Parker, if you were to know what is going on Harry would tell you. Obviously you are not to know this information if Harry is trying so hard to keep it from you; so please.” Gesturing to the door, Barrymore spoke harshly. “Get out.”

\------------------------------

“Hiiii, Gwen. Oh, darn! Uhh, it’s early there, isn’t it? And you’re probably sleeping, sorry, hey… Could you give me a call when you get a chance cuz, uhh… Yeah, listen, I need some help. Not for my, uhh, extracurricular activities, those are doing great, you know, pow, bam, get the baddies and what not.” Peter rubbed a hand over his eyes; outside his window a bird chirped and the sun glowed bright. “Listen, it’s… It’s Harry, I’m worried, he was taken to the hospital a while back because of a seizure and he hasn’t been the same since, Gwen. He, he hallucinated the other night. I mean, he didn’t tell me, he told Spiderman-me, but listen it’s really complicated and I need your help, please. I…I really can’t do this alone anymore, so…so yeah, I guess I love you and goodbye. Hope your classes are going well… Bye.”

\------------------------------

Gwen called the next morning at 1:45. The ringing woke Peter quickly and he answered. She said she had just heard his message (it was around 6 there) and she needed all information. He didn’t even care how early it was; Peter relayed everything: the seizure and the secrecy and the pills and the media coverage on Harry’s declining company and social status and his visit to Barrymore’s office.

“Gwen…help me…”

There was a pregnant pause before Gwen asked, “What are the pills again?”

So he listed off what he could remember. The names were hard, but he gave her a general enough description of the looks and uses that she thought she might have a chance at figuring them out.

“Listen, I’m going to do some research and call you again later, okay? Keep an eye on him, though. I don’t think this is going to end well.”

Peter nodded. “I know…”

If the ever-present sinking in his stomach was anything to go by, this was going to end terribly, terribly wrong.

\------------------------------

Things looked up when Peter made the connection between the coins in his father’s calculator, Roosevelt, and the D-train. He found the lab and he watched the video, heard his father’s voice, and learned.

The venom was specified for Parkers, what with the DNA failsafe that his father had inserted in them. That’s why it worked for Peter, not for Doctor Connors. But it was information Peter could work with. It was information to help him learn more about the strange development in his life.

He learned, though it wasn’t new information, that Norman had been playing dirty. He’d been planning on using the venom for more military purposes than medical, as he had told Peter’s father.

Peter didn’t think that sharing this information would aid anyone. It might give away Spiderman’s secret identity and Harry didn’t need the added hate for his father; he had enough as it was.

\------------------------------

The light was stinging and Harry wondered if turning into a vampire was the end-game because garlic never tasted worse than it did now. (Granted everything tasted like fine granules of dust and dirt and rock smashed together, but still! The sings of vampirism were there.) He began searching for drapes to cover his large office wall-of-windows. He just wanted the light gone because it hurt his eyes, caused paralyzing migraines, and made his skin itch.

And the rash was spreading. Up his ankle to his knee, twisting and turning, painting his lower leg a ghastly puke-yellow. The one on his arm thankfully hadn’t spread farther than the spot on his neck, though the discolored skin was more irritable now. It itched and no matter what Doctor Barrymore prescribed it wouldn’t go away.

Harry didn’t want to die.

The time was 8:42PM and Harry couldn’t sleep, though he really, really wanted to. He was tired but too uncomfortable to fall asleep; and he refused to take the sleeping pills ever since his hallucination gave itself a name. (Green Goblin, what the hell type of name was that?) He needed a distraction. He dressed in a pair of—once more designer—skinny jeans and a tight fitting black top, a deep blue jacket thrown over it and high enough to cover the yellowed skin pretty good, and his boots. Lacing them was easy even pass the shaking in his hands and the leather chaffing against the rash.

He called a taxi and went to a nightclub. He hadn’t been out in society for a while, hadn’t been out to a place with blaring techno music or flashing lights or sweaty bodies grinding against each other, not since he’d returned from boarding school.

He chose a nondescript nightclub, where it would be highly unlikely for any form of media to be. He didn’t feel like having his life plastered everywhere right now. He just wanted to be Harry for a minute, to enjoy life like he wasn’t dying. So he entered the large building and made his way to the bar. Ordering a tequila, he spied on the other patrons. He sipped at the drink, still visually perusing the people. He wanted someone he could have a good time dancing and maybe making out with, but someone who he could easily escape from when the time came.

He wasn’t going to have sex with anyone, never again. He didn’t want to take that chance. Plus, who would want to get between the sheets with a splotchy Harry Osborn?

The tequila went down smoothly, coolly, and Harry ordered another. He claimed a table by putting his drink and jacket down before meandering out onto the dance floor to find a partner. He didn’t have to search long; a girl made the first move. Slim, lithe, redhead, hazelnut eyes… She wore neon makeup to match her brightly colored clothing and she rubbed against Harry in beat to the music.

“Hey, cutie!”

Harry gave a small smile. “Hey, there.” He rested his hands on her hips, swaying his own. “And what’s your name?”

“Angel.”

Yeah, not very accurate. The way she moved showed she was anything but a pure, white celestial being.

“And you, cutie?”

“Harry.” He should use a fake name, but he couldn’t think of one off the top of his head.

She nodded, leaning forward to nuzzle his neck suggestively. “Sure, I thought you were. Harry…”

He tipped his head back and to the side for easy access. She nuzzled more, kissing and sucking her way up the left side of his throat, the unblemished side. He didn’t really get anything out of it, but it was something familiar and something that could ground him. Something other than his rotting body.

Blinking up at the swirling, colorful lights, he let her have her way. She slipped a hand beneath his shirt to feel him up, still paying quite a bit of attention to her neck, and he reciprocated touches. When she reached up a hand to brush against the right side of his neck, scratching at the slightly raised skin of the rash, something snapped inside him. He was not perfect, he did not deserve to get any pleasure out of life, she would see his imperfections and throw him away in disgust.

He felt his stomach twitch, turn; spots danced in front of his eyes and everything seemed to be a swirling mass of limbs and forms, writhing around with the blinking lights. His skin itched, burned, his throat felt raw. He pulled away from her, pushing her away.

“I…”

“Hey, you don’t look so good, sweetie.”

“I can’t…” The room spun, swam, buzzed. The music was too loud, too much bass and drums, thudding and thundering; the lights were too bright and colorful and they _hurt_. They hurt and pierce and Harry’s going to be sick.

He pushed his way out of the crowd, leaving behind Angel in all her neon glory to wallow in rejection. He stumbled out a side door—how he found it was a mystery, but he was thankful for it because the orange lighting of the bulb by the door was kinder than the flashing ones of inside. Harry didn’t even mind the drizzle of rain against his back as he hunched over to expel the alcoholic drink from earlier.

When he was done, he slumped to the ground by the puddle of green liquid. His knees were pulled to his chest with his arms wrapped loosely around his midsection. His back pressed against the brick wall behind him, Harry just sat there. Tired and wet and alone…

“What are you doing?”

The voice was annoyed and angry and Harry blinked away rain water from his lashes to see non-other than Spiderman. The spandex clad man was currently coming up the alley from Harry’s left and if he wasn’t wearing a mask, Harry was sure his face would be intimidating.

Peter was indignant. There were two home robberies he had had to stop, a WalGreens robbery, and a mugging—and now he finds his best friend sitting in a puddle in the rain! “What are you--?” He spotted the bile besides Harry; it was chunky, green, yellow, splotches of red. Peter’s voice softened. “Harry…”

And Harry let out a choked laugh; he rested his head against the brick wall and Peter was tempted to drop to his knees, push the wet bangs clinging to the other’s head out of his face, kiss him, hug him, anything to make him stop laughing like that.

Instead he asked, “Harry, what did you do?”

He sobered. “Do?” He scoffed a laugh, cold and bitter. “I lived!” He rubbed at his face and shifted some against the ground. “I lived and Mom didn’t and…and _Norman_ couldn’t look at me without hitting me, couldn’t even be in the same room as me without yelling, and when he finally did start talking to me it was cold and harsh and disappointed and he hated me. You could see it, you could hear it, you could feel it… He hated me, so he never told me. He never told me that I would die, too.”

And Peter felt his heart stop and his hands go cold. “What?” he squeaked out.

“I’m dying, Spidey.” Harry looked up at him, with those cool blue eyes that watered with unshed tears, those eyes that shined with hurt and anger and fear. “I’m dying, he said it skipped a generation but he lied, he lied to hurt me, he knew it would hurt me. Knew I’d watch my every step so there would be no tiny Osborn heirs with the disease, knew that I’d find out after he died, so…so he’s never not had some form of control over me.” He laughed again, listed to the side and gagged, hands shaking violently, before returning to his hunched position. “I had decided—when I was fifteen and he told me over the phone, the fucking phone, that it skipped—I had decided that I would never, ever, have any kids. Never marry, none of that… And Peter… Peter’d inherit the company. His kids; if they wanted it, they could do whatever they wanted with it, I didn’t care. But Peter… Peter would get it. And all the money too. Because I’d be dead, and he couldn’t refuse then, could he?”

Spiderman fell to his knees before the shivering blond. He needed to be here for Harry as Peter, not Spiderman, so he stuffed his hand in Harry’s front pants pocket and extracted his phone. Harry, surprisingly, let him. Let him invade his personal space, let him touch his person, let him take his phone. Harry just watched him with those wide ice blue eyes.

“I’m calling Peter,” was what Spiderman said.

Harry flipped out. He reached forward real quick to snatch the phone back, but Spiderman was quicker. He pulled it away, out of reach. “No, no, you can’t call him, please, you can’t! You can’t tell him, he can’t know!”

The rash caught Peter’s attention. It was wrong, all wrong, against his skin. Wrinkled and scabbed and yellow and wrong. Soon it would eat Harry whole. “I’m not going to tell him, that’s your business, but he needs to come and pick you up. You shouldn’t be left alone.” He was surprised by how even and calm his voice came out when he was terrified and frozen on the inside. He didn’t really dial his phone, but he did press it to his ear and talk as if he had. He needed to fool Harry.

Harry was breaking. He was crying now, face screwed up, and mumbling and muttering in frustration and pain and annoyance. Probably even fear. “No, no, no, no…”

The rain fell harder now and Spiderman returned the phone to its pocket. “Harry—”

“No, no, don’t you dare call me that!” Harry pushed at the red clad chest with a sudden burst of energy. “You don’t get to call me by my first name, we aren’t friends!”

So he just sat there with his hands hovering around the broken being before him. Three minutes went by and Harry seemed to have gained some control over his emotions. His crying had dwindled and he was clutching at Spiderman’s shoulders now, not pushing, and he had stopped muttering protests. Spiderman pulled away.

“Look, I have to go, but Peter will be here soon. Just stay here, okay? He’ll take care of you.”

With a small nod from the smaller boy, Spiderman swung away. Only a few streets away where he had stashed his clothes. He changed quickly, stuffed the Spidey suit in his bag, and ran back to Harry’s side. He splashed through the puddles and came to a quick stop at his friend’s side; Harry just stared up at him, lashes wet and lips chapped and hair clinging to his brow.

“Harry…”

“Peter.” And those shaking hands reached out for him, for Peter, for safety.

Peter made everything alright, he always made things right, always helped and put a smile on Harry’s face. Peter fell to his knees and pulled a shaking Harry close to his chest.

And Harry fell into his arms, into safety.

The world fell into order in that moment for Harry; Peter swirled in the chaos of his friend dying.

\------------------------------

“Gwen, he’s dying.”

She wasn’t even awake yet and those were the first words out of Peter Parker’s mouth. “What?”

“Harry, he has what his dad had. Retroviral hyperplasia.”

Gwen sat up to throw the covers off. “Oh, well…” What could she say to that? _I’m sorry your best friend is dying_ didn’t seem to cut it. “How did you find out?”

“He told me, well! Spiderman me, but Norman lied to him, Gwen. He said it skipped, remember that? Remember how happy Harry had been when he told us?”

He had come back from the boarding school when he was nineteen; Peter and he had caught up for days and Gwen had stumbled upon them just standing in each other’s arms, talking like it was all normal, on the pier. Peter had blushed profusely when he’d caught her eye, but Harry hadn’t noticed her; he had continued to stare out across the water, perfectly straightened hair blowing lightly in the wind. That was her first glimpse of the famous Harry Osborn.

After that, she had been invited to dinner with both of them and an hour in Harry had spilled the good news. _It skips a generation,_ and he was grinning so wide and his eyes lit up in such a way that Gwen could understand the strange relationship Peter had with him. He just had that face of a child that you wanted to protect, that you wanted to hold close and never let go and shower with kisses and love and lollipops; even Gwen Stacy found herself drawn in by his charm.

“I remember, Peter. I did some research on the pills, Pete; I couldn’t find any reason—disease—for all those pills and I thought it might be.. But I wasn’t sure, you know only one other family in all the history of medicine has ever had retroviral hyperplasia. I couldn’t find anything, Peter. There was nothing.”

“Norman has it under lock and key.” In New York City, Peter glanced away from the window to the couch where Harry was dozing fitfully. “We can’t get to the files without access and it’s so friggin restricted!” He rubbed at his brow, pinched the bridge of his nose.

From the way he was talking, Gwen figured he had tried already. She booted up her computer. “Listen, I’m coming back there. We’re going to figure this out, Peter; we aren’t going to let him go without a fight, okay? We don’t do that.”

Peter nodded before realizing she couldn’t see him. “Okay, okay…yeah, alright… But, what about Oxford?”

Gwen clicked on Firefox, typed in the website for the airline, checked ticket prices. “Oxford can shove it; Harry is dying.”

Gwen hit the buy button for a ticket that would leave in three hours.

\------------------------------

Gwen and Peter spent most of their time in the Oscorp Labs, experimenting with whatever restorative chemicals they could find and get their hands on. They were frantic at first; experimenting and mixing and changing and trying to find something, anything. They never voiced that they knew about Harry’s health, but Harry knew they did and he was thankful they didn’t say anything. It gave him a semblance that they weren’t worrying, he could pretend that they were still innocent and living life like normal, treating him like normal.

He eventually, secretly, raised their clearance to access the Secret Project he had started earlier to find a cure, Project H.Os-Cure. They started working together with the other scientists and medical staff, while Harry continued to go about his life like normal. Board meetings, fundings, paperwork, micromanaging, sleep, maybe eat…

Peter moved in after Harry skipped lunch two days in a row. He started checking up on Harry frequently, stopping by his office at lunch and dragging him out of board meetings for sleep or food or just a break. Once or twice Menken had tried to intervene, but he learned quickly not to stand up to Peter when it came to Harry; Menken was a coward.

“Eat up.”

Set in front of Harry was a burger and medium fries, greasy McDonald’s food. Besides him, Gwendolyn munched on her own fries and sipped at her coke while Peter, across from them both, dug into a chicken wrap. Harry picked at the burger.

“How was the board meeting?”

“Boring,” was his response and Gwen laughed.

“No kidding.”

Peter scuffed his foot against the floor, swallowed down his chicken. “Okay, but seriously, we need to do a Star Wars marathon soon.”

“Dude, we did a Star Wars marathon just a few months ago.”

“Okayyy,” He drawled. “Then Harry Potter.”

Gwen laughed. “No! No! Some girls at Oxford made me watch it, I’d much prefer a Star Wars marathon.”

Harry smirked—it was surprising Gwen didn’t like Harry Potter too much—and gave a chuckle that turned into a coughing fit. A cup was nudged towards him and he sipped gratefully; lemonade soothed his throat. He croaked out a thanks and the conversation continued, but he didn’t miss the way Peter’s foot rested solid against his own or the way Gwen had scooted closer. It felt good to have support.

\------------------------------

Gwen and Peter had been focusing on the spider venom left over from Norman and Richard’s experiments. After all, Peter had his father’s research from the Roosevelt lab.

“Mister Parker.”

His throat was suddenly filled by his heart and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t talk. All he could hear was his own heart beat drumming in his ears, _panic panic panic_. He pressed his cellphone closer to his ear. “Barrymore, shit! Where is he, is he okay? Shit!”

“He collapsed, Mister Parker, at a press conference. I had him moved to his flat; he’s asking for you.”

Peter scrambled away from the desk he had been working at, ignored the stares from the staff and Gwen’s voice calling after him, and rushed out the door. “I’m on my way”

\------------------------------

Barrymore told him it was exhaustion and that his body was weakening. He seemed to have trouble not saying why, not saying disease or retroviral hyperplasia. So Peter told him.

“I know.”

And Barrymore had raised a bushy eyebrow at that, eyes widening some. “He told you?”

Peter’s face screwed up. “Yes? No? It’s complicated.”

Barrymore had nodded, acquiesced, and patted Peter on the shoulder awkwardly. “Well then, I…I guess I should say I’m sorry, but I don’t feel that sorry ever cuts it with patient family. So…”

Peter just nodded and Barrymore told him to wait in the livingroom until he and his staff were done settling and assessing Harry.

Eventually, after the personnel had left, Peter was let into the bedroom and he took up a seat on Harry’s bed. Harry was propped up on pillows in a half lying-half sitting position and looked terrible; his eyes were red rimmed. Dark circles of exhaustion tried to win out over the red and he looked pale, shaken. Peter took up his hand, laying it in his lap, and brushed his knuckles soothingly against the pale skin of his arm.

“Hey.”

“Hey…” His voice was hoarse.

Peter smoothed blond bangs gently. “You okay?”

“Thirsty… Think you could do something for me?”

Peter nodded. “Sure, yeah.”

“Grapefruit juice. I want grapefruit juice with two spoonfuls of sugar.”

“Grapefruit juice?” There was a smile in his voice; Harry sounded like a petulant child with his demand. But he dutifully got up and left to complete the request. The kitchen was stocked with what he needed and he quickly accomplished the task, dropping a bendy straw in the cup. He returned quickly to Harry’s side and found him watching the news on the flatscreen mounted on the wall; sometimes rich people baffled Peter.

Harry regarded his friend with interest. “There was a robbery last night, did you know that?”

Peter shook his head and raised the straw to the other’s mouth. “No, I didn’t. What happened?”

After Harry was done sipping from the drink, he responded “Well, Spideyguy didn’t show up. He’s been particularly absent of late. So the coppers had to take care of them. Nothing too bad, no injuries.”

Peter nodded. “That’s good.” He had been neglecting his vigilante duties lately, but Harry couldn’t wait and there hadn’t been too many heavy crimes; at least, nothing he knew the police couldn’t handle. Sure, some nights he had gone out to blow off some steam but mostly he stayed at the lab and only left when it was completely necessary. “Wonder where that Spideyguy went.” So the nickname felt weird on his tongue, but it put a smile on Harry’s face.

“Dunno.” Harry reached for the cup and Peter shook his head.

“Nope, I’m holding it.”

“Peter!” was the whine that came.

“Nope, put your hands down, invalid.”

“’M not an invalid.” But Harry complied and Peter brought the straw to his lips.

Peter smirked and watched as Harry sipped the drink. “Yes you are. God, how can you drink that? It’s so bitter!”

Harry spluttered a laugh. “Ha, that’s what the sugar is for, idiot!”

Peter couldn’t help it; he was scared and troubled and upset and he leant forward to plant a kiss on Harry’s nose. “Mmhm, still bitter.”

Harry still laughed, quietly, and rolled closer towards his friend. “Fine then, be close minded. Come lay down with me.”

Peter set the glass down on the bedside table and settled besides Harry, wrapped the slighter boy in his arms. Harry slung and arm over his waist and tucked his head beneath Peter’s chin, breathed softly against his collar bone. Peter buried his nose in the soft blond hair and breathed in his scent. He smelled of strawberry shampoo and hospital chemicals.

\------------------------------

Spiderman thought he recognized that figure on the edge of the bridge. It was late, again, and Peter was blowing off some frustration on some house invaders and drug dealers. He was swinging back to Harry’s when he spotted non-other than Harry Osborn on the bridge.

On the wrong side of the railing.

He quickly swung down and perched perfectly on the railing. “Hey,” he spoke quietly. “What are you doing? Not thinking of jumping, are you?”

Harry smirked, leaned further out when the wind picked up, and Peter readied a web slinger just to be safe. “Maybe. You worried about me, Spidey?”

“Yeah.”

His head lolled to the side to pierce Spiderman with a vacant stare. “I’m not going anywhere, Spiderman. Nowhere but in the ground. And I’m a burden. So I’m going to jump; and you’re going to watch.”

“I can’t do that, Harry.”

“We aren’t…”

“I know, we aren’t friends but—”

“No, no…” Harry had a strange look on his face. “Spiderman, could we be friends?”

Peter nodded. “Yes, yes we can. Will you climb over the railing? Come on, get on solid ground, Harry.” Peter dismounted his crouched position and reached a hand out. “Let me help you, Harry.”

There was a quiet moment; a tear streaked down Harry’s face and Peter wanted to hold him close. “You say my name just like Peter.”

He climbed over the rail and Spiderman brought him home where he curled in his bed and waited for Peter to show up. Hold him close, stroke his hair, ghost fingers over his hips.

That’s just what Peter did.

\------------------------------

Harry tapped at his office table computer. Technology had come a long way, and technically Oscorp had to thank Tony Stark for collaborating with them and aiding in the design and manufacturing of the one-of-a-kind table computer. Of course, it wasn’t as fancy as Stark’s one-of-a-kind holographic computers, but it was still pretty fancy.

Harry was reading the updates on a Secret Project when his whole table computer shut down and **_ACCESS DENIED_** blinked in large, red blocked lettering across the screen. Confused, he pulled away from his table to go talk to Felicia when the door to his office burst open with yells from Felicia; in marched Menken and three security personnel, Felicia not far behind.

“You can’t go in there, he’s busy! Hey!”

“Mister Osborn, you are removed of duty.”

“What?” Harry nearly yelled; what the hell was going on? He took some menacing steps towards Menken, but the guards moved quickly to grab him and hold him back.

Menken was grinning, a shit eating grin. “Fired. Outed, you are no longer in charge of this company. Really, you think you could keep your declining health hidden. After that little stunt you pulled at that press conference, collapsing, really? Pathetic.”

Harry struggled against the rough hands holding him. “Lemme go, let me go! How dare you say that, Menken! You can’t do this!”

“That rash seems to be spreading, huh?” Menken brushed cold digits across Harry’s neck; he felt disgusted. “Won’t be long now, hm? You’ll start fading faster.” His fingers still brushed Harry’s skin and Harry felt sick. “Won’t remember much, you’ll maybe even fall into a coma. Your skin will eat itself; those rashes? They’ll turn into open sores, oozing and festering and stinking up your whole room. And, oh, the pain you’ll be in!” Menken lent in close; he smelled of pork, probably had a pork sub for lunch. “No one will miss young, forgotten, dead Harry Osborn.” He pulled away sharply with a dangerous glint in his eye.

Harry vaguely wondered if he could projectile vomit on Menken’s clean shoes and pulled at the guards holding him back.

“Get away from him.” Peter Parker stood silhouetted in the doorway; his face was pure, righteous fury and his fists were clenched at his side. His lips were set in a thin line, and his eyes—those eyes that were always warm and loving—were full of hate and anger. “Get—away—from—him.”

“Peter!” Harry’s voice was filled with relief.

“Mister Parker, your access is revoked as is Miss Gwendolyn Stacy’s.” Menken smirked proudly. “Felicia, do remove his badge from his person. Felicia!”

She jolted forward, hand reaching tentatively for the piece of plastic attached to Peter’s belt. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed and he nodded thankfully before marching down the stairs and standing toe-to-toe with Menken.

“You think you can remove Harry from history, from existence, think you can just…usurp him like this.”

Harry absently pondered when Peter had increased his vocabulary.

“You can’t, and won’t, get away with this, Menken.”

Menken merrily smirked. “I already did.”

There was a pause where Peter and Menken stared each other down, where the only sound was their heavy breathing, and the reality of the situation caught up to Harry. Access denied to Peter and Gwen meant that they wouldn’t be able to work on a cure; him being fired meant that the H.Os-Cure project would probably be canceled, especially now that the man who hated him the most would be in charge. Any hope he had was gone out the window on the breeze. He doubled over.

“Peter, I’m gonna be sick.”

The guards let him go and he found himself pulled against Peter’s side. Warmth and safety washed over him and he tried to steady his breathing, murmuring out _“I’m going to be sick_ ” over and over and over again.

“S’okay, Har, s’okay. We’ll get you home and figure this all out, okay?”

He was led from the office to the elevator down the hall, inside it, and the doors shut tight. “Peter…”

Calloused hands brushed tears from his face. “Shh, hey hey, no. Don’t go crying, Harry. It’ll be okay, we’ll figure something out.” Chapped lips brushed softer ones, pressed to pronounced cheekbones, against his brow. “Don’t cry, Har, please don’t cry.” Peter kissed him on the lips again, caught his tears on his lips, brushed the soft hair away. Between kisses he muttered _“Don’t cry”, “Stop crying”, “Buddy, please”_ and Harry found himself calming down under Peter’s ministrations.

Harry slumped against the elevator wall and clutched at Peter’s sweater. “Ohgod, Peter!”

“Shh, shh, hey. It’ll be okay, we’ll figure something out.” Peter cupped his face delicately, so caringly. “Harry, look at me.” Tortured blue eyes focused on Peter’s wide brown ones and he pressed their foreheads together. “Harry, I’m going to figure this out.”

Harry searched Peter’s face for a lie, but all he found was determination and his hope sprouted slowly. He nodded, swallowed. “Okay. Okay, I trust you.”

\------------------------------

“What are we going to do, Peter?” Gwen regarded him; he rubbed his hands together as if trying to start a fire. “Peter.”

“I don’t know.”

On the couch across the room, Harry moaned in pain; he was napping after his emotional breakdown and he was in pain; a migraine and the rash was spreading, burning. Peter shot him a worried glance before gazing back out the large window at the brightly lit city.

“I don’t know, Gwen…”

She let out a heavy breath, stepped forward to wrap her arms around Peter’s shoulders. “We’ll figure something out. For starters, we need a lab.”

“For starters we need our work from Oscorp.”

He sounded so dejected, but Gwen only grinned. “I stored the computer documents on four flashdrives and in the Cloud from the start; we’re good, Peter.” She felt him relax substantially and thought for sure he was going to fall to the ground if she weren’t holding him up. “Peter!”

“Shush!” Harry shifted on the couch again and Peter quickly glanced over the blonde’s shoulder at the other boy. When Harry showed no signs of waking up, Peter returned to talking quietly. “Okay, so we need a lab and maybe we can replicate some of the formulas from Oscorp.”

“Oh I know we can; we’re the smartest people Harry knows!”

Peter let out a quiet laugh. “Okay, princess.” He kissed her cheek. “Thank you for looking ahead.”

Her eyes widened incredulously. “I always do, Peter Parker.”

\------------------------------

No labs had the tech that was needed for their research and Peter felt desperate. Not even his father’s lab could help; the equipment was outdated and barely had anything that could help. Besides, of course, the information.

“We need to figure something out, Gwen; Harry’s not doing good!”

The rash had started to turn into sores and spread faster. Harry slept for the majority of the time and required near darkness when he was awake, or else a migraine would develop. His breathing was getting heavy and thick and he was lethargic when he wasn’t sleeping.

“I know, I know.” Even Gwen was getting desperate.

Neither had slept for the week following the Oscorp Mutiny. They’d been going over the documents, separating those they found little hope in providing a cure, and those that they could actually replicate. But without the technology and lab, nothing could be done. Without the spider venom, no more experimenting could be done.

Peter glanced up to the muted television. Tony Stark’s ugly mug was plastered on there, something about Iron Man visiting some sick kids at the hospital. An idea started forming.

“Gwen, pen and paper now please! Please, now!”

A rumpled piece of paper was thrust under his chin and Peter grabbed the pen, uncapped it, and began scribbling furiously. Gwen watched in confusion.

“More paper, Gwen, this is gonna take some time.”

He sat hunched over a cleared space of the cluttered coffee table for hours. He wrote and rewrote and wrote some more, until finally he sat back at three in the morning.

“Gwen, I need this professionally typed up. Can you do that? Let me sign.”

Her bloodshot eyes roved over the words and she glanced at Peter over the top of it. “You want to send this…?”

“Yes.”

“Peter—”

“Send it. It could save him.”

\------------------------------

“Oh my dear god! This kid thinks he’s Spiderman! Ha, haha, hahaha _ha_!!”

Steaming coffee in hand, Steve contemplated turning around and leaving an obviously hung-over Tony to whatever it was he found so humorous this morning. After all, Tony was eccentric and Steve didn’t always feel like being a part of his plans.

Tony was still rolling around on the couch laughing, a letter clutched in his hands. Curiosity won out and Steve marched over, snatched the paper, and read it. He sipped at his coffee, eyes widened, spluttered the dark liquid out.

“Tony! This kid is asking for help and all you gathered from this was that he said he’s Spiderman!”

Bruce looked up from the newspaper at his place in an oversized arm chair. “Someone is asking for help?”

Steve handed the letter over and glared at Tony. “Get up from the floor and sober up! We need to help him!”

_Tony Stark,_

_I understand that you are busy with your company and being Iron Man. Thank you for helping and being a hero. I really look up to you. My name is Peter Parker, you might recognize my name from pictures I take of Spiderman for the Daily Bugle._

_I believe you’ve had dealings with Oscorp Industries and possibly even met or recognize the name of Harry Osborn, Norman Osborn’s son. I’m writing because we need help. Norman suffered from a very rare disease called retroviral hyperplasia; he died because of it. Harry has been diagnosed with the same disease and is suffering to a slow death._

_Harry had me and a mutual friend, Gwendolyn Stacy, work with Oscorp medical staff and scientists for a cure. We were doing good when Harry was bumped from his position and a Donald Menken took over. He shut down the cure program and revoked Gwen and my access to anything Oscorp._

_Gwen was smart enough to back up the files, but we don’t have the technology, money, or labs to continue our research in finding a cure._

_I was hoping that you might help us. We really need your help, Harry is dying and I can’t keep watching my best friend wither away like this._

_I don’t know if it’ll make a difference, but I’m Spiderman and, as a mutual hero, please. Please help us. We don’t know what else to do. We don’t even know if our research is right or if we’re just barking up the wrong tree. We really think you can help, whether it’s by throwing money our way or actually offering us a lab at Stark Industries. We’ll accept anything you could offer us, Mister Stark, please._

_Sincerely,_

_Peter Parker_

\------------------------------

Peter grazed his short nails against Harry’s shoulder blade, down his ribs, back up. They were lying spread out on Harry’s large bed, with Peter on his back and Harry sprawled over him. Peter’s left arm was squashed under Harry’s body weight and his right thumb brushed against the skin of Harry’s wrist. It hurt Harry to lie on his decaying skin, but he still did it. Especially when Peter was going to cuddle with him.

Horns honked outside and people yelled on the streets, car lights brushing against the shut blinds. Peter breathed evenly and closed his eyes; Harry snored softly against his shoulder and Peter relished in his presence, his every breath. It meant he was still alive, meant they still had time.

“Wait!”

The door opened to reveal a crisp and clean Tony Stark in a pressed grey suit; Gwen was right behind him, a wide-eyed awed look on her face.

“Oh—my—god.” Peter’s mouth hung open. “You actually came.”

“Yes, well,” Tony tugged at his cufflinks. “I just wanted to see if you were actually Spiderman.”

Tony took in the two teenagers before him. They were entangled with each other, one pale and delicate and the other tall and determined. Peter was obviously the tall and determined one, and Harry was the sickly, pale one. Peter matched the tone in his letter; a little bit naïve, bleeding heart, determined and stubborn. And Harry. Well, Harry was an enigma of angular joints and soft hair and rotting skin.

Behind him he felt Bruce and Steve glancing over his shoulder. He wondered if they saw what he saw.

Steve piped up “Yeah, that’s the only reason we got him to come.”

Peter couldn’t believe it; standing before him were three Avengers, all come to help him save his friend. “Well… When do we start?” Harry stirred as Peter tried to sit up, hoping not to jostle him too much; the blond boy let out a small groan and Peter brushed his hair back, shushing him gently.

Tony knew that look in Peter’s eyes from only three other people: Pepper when she looked at Tony, Steve whenever he saw Bucky, and Bucky when he had a lucid moment of clarity and recognized Steve. Tony was glad Steve was such a good debater. “Right away.”

Peter eased Harry to lie on his back and bright blue eyes opened to regard his companion tiredly.

“Pe’er?”

“Sh, sh, sh. It’s okay, it’s okay.” Peter leaned over him protectively, absently brushing gently against the hair that framed that pale face. “I gotta go, okay, I gotta go. Okay, I love you.” He kissed the smaller boy quickly, pulling away. “I love you so much; I gotta go.” Tugging the covers around Harry, he vaulted off the bed and pushed everyone out; Harry was back asleep within moments.

Peter ignored the looks from the three new comers and crossed his arms. “Let’s start.”

\------------------------------

“Tell me: how did you get your powers?” Tony tossed some popcorn in his mouth and stalked behind Peter’s work space on the counter. “Were you born with them, twinkle toes?”

They had moved in the equipment Tony had brought, shoving the living room couches and tables out of the way to make room for the gear and Bruce, Tony, Gwen, and Peter had hunkered down to work (well, Tony had just paced and been virtually useless so far); Steve had taken up a seat by Harry and promised to alert Peter if anything happened.

“I got bit by a spider; low story short, it was an experiment my dad had worked on. It’ll only work for me, though.”

“Ohh, prideful much!”

“No,” Gwen glared at the machoman pacing Harry’s living room floor. “We lost a good friend to it.” She went back to studying a graph of Harry’s rotting skin.

Tony stayed quiet for a half minute, munching on popcorn, before speaking again. “So why then? Why only you, Parker?”

Peter pushed away from the petri dish he was attempting to assemble a chemical from Oscorp in. “Because Dad put in a failsafe; he only ever experimented with his DNA, so the spider’s venom could only ever work for a Parker.”

Tony nodded and resumed pacing; Bruce leant away from the files he was studying and stared out the wall of windows. Peter’s petri dish fizzled, steamed, and he leapt away when a small fire started.

“Shit!”

Tony casually handed him a small extinguisher.

“You have healing properties, right, Peter?”

The fire was out quickly; Peter waved his hands vaguely in answer. “Yeah, I guess.”

Bruce nodded. “We could reverse the failsafe.”

All attention turned to Bruce. He shrugged, twirling his glasses in one hand.

“It’s possible. Isolate the DNA, extract it, insert Harry’s… It could work.”

Tony shook his head and squinted at his slightly burnt popcorn. “Nahh, too risky. We would probably never be able to extract all of the Parker DNA and that could cause complications.”

“But we could extract enough that Harry’s would override whatever failsafe is there.”

“Don’t you think Norman would’ve tried that, Bruce?”

Gwen shook her head; her hair was tied in a bun and wisps fell to frame her face. “No, the files were tampered with by Richard—Mister Parker—and said that there were multiple DNAs that had been used. Not just one. Norman wouldn’t know that he had to extract or replace. Especially considering he experimented on those whose DNA had been labeled on the spiders that survived. And what with what happened to Doctor Connors, imagine what happened to all those poor people!”

Peter nodded and set the extinguisher down. “It might work, you know. But…” He took a breath. “Look, we’d have to isolate more than just my DNA. I’m not having Harry be some super-spider-infused-Harry; that could put him in danger if people found out. We should just isolate the healing properties.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Come on, kid, you think we have time for that?”

“No, he has a point.” Bruce put his glasses on and reached for the file on the spider venom. “Look, they didn’t have the proper technology at the time, but we could do it today. Just like isolating and removing Peter’s DNA.”

Tony plonked down on the floor. “I need a scotch.”

Gwen and Peter, both reading over Bruce’s shoulder, pointed to the liquor cabinet in unison.

“Top shelf, way in the back on the right.”

\------------------------------

They needed the venom and God sent them a saving grace! Felicia Hardy. Gwen got in contact with her outside of the workplace and relayed their plan, leaving out some details that may point to Peter’s secret identity. Felicia agreed to help, but there was the problem that her badge didn’t give her high enough clearance.

“I can help with that.” Tony had muttered, downing the third bottle of scotch he had found. “Gimme her badge and I can probably duplicated it or some shit, I dunno, I’ll do it when I’m sober.”

So Felicia had handed over her badge, as well as Peter’s badge that she hadn’t thrown out, when Gwen asked for it and Tony had fiddled with them both.

“Switched out the coding on the black strip.” He pulled the cards out of a small machine that resembled a printer. “She should have perfect access to higher up information. I read the code in twinkle toes’ all-access strip and implanted it into Felicia Hardy’s.” Handing them to Gwen, he received a peck on the cheek for his help.

Felicia had gotten into the secret program section easily and was able to sneak out two canisters of spider venom. She dropped them off at Harry’s place and the next day Oscorp was abuzz with news of a robbery from the bowels of the company. Menken’s rule was shaky, had always been shaky, but Felicia had a feeling the minute Harry was better there would be an even larger mutiny than when Menken appropriated power.

Work on the cure went quickly. It took a few tries, five in total, to isolate the healing properties of the venom. They mapped out the chemical properties of the venom, the chemical properties of the healing power, the sticking-to-walls, the heightened senses. Everything was mapped and recorded and stored safely. They tested the venom on graphs and slices of Peter’s skin and eventually Peter had one full arm wrapped in gauze.

Whenever Steve came to get him saying Harry was asking for him, Peter had to explain that the Avengers weren’t hurting him. That they were good and everything was fine; but Harry worried.

“You shouldn’t be…hurt. Why are you hurt? You shouldn’t be hurt, Pete.”

“Harry,” Peter chided. He leaned forward so Harry could see him better; his right eye was practically completely clouded over and barely tracked movement anymore. “I’m fine. We’re testing out a cure. It’s fine.”

“Gwen’s’not being tested.”

“Yeah, it’s…complicated.”

Harry hummed. “I don’ do complicamated.”

Peter smirked, reminded of when Harry had messed up a word before. “Complicated, right.” He pressed a gentle kiss to Harry’s cheek and the boy dropped to sleep immediately.

\------------------------------

“We just have to add in Harry’s DNA now; we can test it out after that.”

So they did. Tony and Bruce did it, because they were more experienced in scientific excursions. Peter and Gwen waited on edge and fidgety. Gwen sat with Harry for a while to give Steve a break. Steve sat with Peter out on the balcony, nursing a hot cup of coffee.

“So, you and Harry?”

Peter gnawed on his nail. “What?”

“Are you and him together?”

Peter shrugged, stopped gnawing on his nail to flap his arms against his side. “It’s…complicated.” Peter paused at that, face screwed up. “Harry doesn’t do…complicated…”

Steve sipped the dark liquid. “Well he must. Because you two care for each other so much it’s almost painful.”

Peter squinted at Captain America. “What?”

“Well, you two do exchange kisses and sleep in the same bed. You’re practically an unofficial couple.”

Peter paused in his pacing to stare slack jawed at the man. “What?” He squeaked.

Steve smiled. “Peter, did you ever think about how you treat Harry?”

The boy shook his head.

“You treat him like he’s the very reason you get up in the morning; like he’s the one person that matters to you; like he’s the very breath you breathe.”

Peter leaned heavily against the balcony railing. “But…”

“And he looks at you like you give him the energy to hold on and keep fighting this disease.” Steve stared into his coffee cup. “You act like me and Harry is just like Bucky. So, please. Please,” Steve regarded the brunette. “Don’t let time take him away from you.”

Peter shook his head. “We’re not together; I mean, yeah, I love him. But I love Gwen, and Aunt May.”

Steve smiled. “But you don’t look at Gwen the way you do Harry.”

So Peter marched into the house, pass the living room where Tony and Bruce were working diligently, and into Harry’s room. Gwen looked up from her place on the chair by the bed where Harry slept quietly.

“Peter?”

“Gwen, I love him. Like, super-duper romantically like him.”

She merrily nodded, like it was old news, and returned to her book in her hands.

\------------------------------

The tests came back positive for six out of seven. Peter was torn between saying that was good enough and saying that it was still too dangerous.

“Peter…”

Harry wasn’t getting any better. He was slipping farther. Barrymore said he had maybe two weeks left; and two weeks was stretching it. He was continuously attached to an oxygen mask and the number of IVs stuck into his arm was getting higher and higher. His skin was falling off and oozing and his lips were terribly chapped.

Peter couldn’t kiss him anymore without hurting it, couldn’t touch his without causing some pain.

“I’m dying,” Harry had rasped, eyes barely open. “Please, anything is better than…nothing…”

So Peter had taken the syringe from Bruce just outside the door and pushed the plunger, excreting the venom in Harry’s veins through his IV.

He prayed that Harry would be the six out of seven.

The night was difficult. Harry screamed and clawed at his skin, the most movement he had made in months. Peter cried and held him down and cried some more. Harry sobbed and screamed and his skin mended before Peter’s eyes until baby-soft, pink skin replaced the vile, oozing green.

By the morning, Harry was resting easily and Barrymore was called to remove the IVs and other machinery.

“It’s a miracle, Mister Parker.”

Peter could only nod with a grin lighting up his face. “Yes, it is.”

\------------------------------

“I don’t know how we can ever repay you, Mister Stark; Mister Banner, Mister Rogers.”

“Please, son,” Steve clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Just Steve. Call if you ever need anything.”

Tony waved flippantly, tapping on his phone. “Yeah, yeah, kid; look after your boyfriend.”

Peter flushed at that while Gwen tried very hard not to giggle.

“You know, Harry wanted to come out and give his thanks too.”

Tony glanced over his designer glasses. “Keep that moron in bed; he needs rest before he can do anything strenuous.” Tony turned and slammed his car door shut.

Bruce smiled warmly at the pair, gave them a parting wave. “Take care.”

With that, the Avengers all piled into the fancy sports car and it peeled away down the road.

“I have to make a pit stop, boys, so I hope you weren’t planning on getting home right away.”

“Where are we going?” Bruce had learned to just roll with Tony’s plans.

“Making a trip to visit a…friend.” Tony tossed his phone in the backseat with Steve. “Hey, capsicle, think I could morally punch a dirty CEO?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Tony, you do whatever you want to regardless of morals. But, yes, I think morally it would be acceptable.”

So Tony marched right up to Menken’s office, punched him square on the nose, and told him he had been fired. Curtesy of one very alive Harold Theopolis Osborn.

\------------------------------

“You know,” Harry started, voiced muffled by Peter’s shirt. “Spiderman reminds me a lot of you.”

They were curled up in Harry’s bed, trying to stall Harry having to get up for work. It had been two months since the cure had been found and Harry was fully recovered, had regained his position at Oscorp, and Tony, Steve, and Bruce kept in touch quite frequently with all three: Gwen, Peter, and Harry. The Oscorp and Stark Industry standings were firmer and developments in both medical and military projects were booming, as well a social projects to aid in everyday life.

All in all things were going well.

“Why do you say that, Harry?”

Harry pressed against the fingers kneading into his neck muscles, letting out a soft moan. The skin where the rash had spread was still a light pink and occasionally the muscles would tense up, but he was doing much better than ever before. “Just ‘cause.” He pushed away from the solid chest to scrutinize Peter. “There're just things. He says my name the same way you do, he stalks me like you do… Kisses like you do.”

Peter very clearly remembered the kiss in the rain he had shared with Harry. Fully clad in the Spidey-Suit, Harry had kissed him on the balcony. “Oh yeah?”

Harry pecked him squarely on the lips. “Yeah. Exactly like you do.”

Peter let him nuzzle back into his chest. “I’m not sure if I should be jealous or not.”

“Definitely jealous.”

Peter worked at the tense muscles in the neck harder, eliciting another moan from the smaller boy.

“Should always be jealous when someone else has my attention but you.” Harry yawned, smacked his lips together in a very un-Harry like mannerism. "So if you aren't jealous than maybe you're Spiderman."

Peter didn’t comment; he brought his other hand up to add to the massage and Harry released a drawn out moan, pressing his lips to Peter’s collarbone. “What are we, Harry?”

Harry shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Are we a couple?”

The young CEO thought for a minute. “I guess so, kinda… Nahh.” He pushed away once more so he could see Peter’s face. “We’re more complicated than that.”

Peter smirked. “I thought you didn’t do complicated.”

Harry smirked right back: “I can make an exception.” He dove down to capture Peter’s mouth with his own and Harry figured complicated couldn’t be so bad.

He'd rather be complicated with Peter than anything else, with anyone else.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not the One:  
> -You're way too young to be broken.  
> You're way too young to fall apart.  
> You're way too young to play these games  
> -Jumping off of the edge,  
> Oversleeping your head,  
> Everything's turning dark to you  
> -I went to pick up the parts,  
> The doctor's hiding the charts,  
> He won't let me see this side of you  
> -It's on the tip of my tongue,  
> You know you're way too young  
> To have someone lie to you
> 
> Swimming in the Flood:  
> -That night up on the awning I saw love pour out of every street  
> -My eyes were wide as hell  
> I saw the cancer move  
> Throughout your dying shell  
> Saw you swimming in it  
> -You thought your arms were weak  
> Thought my hand was cruel  
> -I never wanna fool you, I'm swallowed up in everything
> 
> Hell Above:  
> -I run through glass in the street  
> Kerosene hearts carry the name that my father gave me  
> And take the face of the wolf  
> -I don't need any more friends  
> And another kiss like a fire on pavement  
> We'll burn it down till the end  
> -I've waited all this night to honor you and say,  
> "I know it's hard, but who are you to fall apart on me, on me?"  
> -You said what about us, well, what about me?  
> Hang from the gallows asleep in the rain  
> 'Cause this is a wasteland, my only retreat  
> Paralyze me  
> Don't let me jump, don't let me fall 
> 
> Don't ask how these inspired the fic, I've learned to not question my Muse....


End file.
